Good question. Never thought of it, and don’t care. “Wait. Why is he going to arrest you?” I stop her with a hand up to her face. “Never mind, I don’t care. Are they arresting Vance?”
She shifts her feet, lowers her eyes, and bites her lip, which incidentally has a red blotchy mark beneath it. That she won’t make eye contact with me worries me. “I don’t think so. I heard Uncle Rodney threaten to charge the camera guy with trespassing if he tried, and he even mentioned assault for grabbing you. Did they really grab you?” She looks me over for signs of a struggle, but still hesitates with her eye contact.
“I’m fine.” I’m worse than fine, but because I know next to nothing about what’s going on out there, not because some asshole grabbed me.
Bristol shifts her feet again, as red blotches appear on her chest, and her expressive eyes deteriorate from curious to worried. The last time she had red, blotchy skin, she was guilty of something.
The door opens and Uncle Rodney, using a sweeping, impatient hand motion, ushers us out. “Brenna, they’ll need your statement before you can leave, but other than that, we’re done here. Bristol.” He places a veined hand on her shoulder, and it’s a heavy one, because Bristol’s height shrinks an inch beneath it. “You pull shit like that again and you’re on your own. Niece or no, I will disown you for that shit. Do I make myself clear?”
She swallows hard, nods, and accidentally makes eye contact with me, which she breaks the moment she realizes her mistake. I hesitate between the old habit of defending and protecting Bristol regardless of what she’s done, and my expanding heart that now sometimes beats independently from hers. I grab her by the elbow as she tries to lose herself in the crowded bar.
“What did you do? Why would Uncle Rodney say that?” My eyes skirt between her eyes and her blotches—the red flags I knew better than to ignore.
Her eyes plead with Uncle Rodney’s, and I know that if I’m going to get any answers, I’ll need to watch him and not Bristol. His lips are tight, eyes stern, and when he gives one single firm nod, I know it’s not a nod of permission but one of command, and she’s not getting out of here without confessing something.
“Bristol?” I now look to her.
“I—” she hesitates, wrings her fingers, thumbs the belt loop of her shorts, scrapes the ribbing of her Stray Charlie’s tank top with her thumbnail, and swallows like she has a giant hairball in her throat she can’t cough up or pass.
“Spit it out,” I say between clenched teeth and depleted patience. I’ve still got to give a statement to bike cop Solomon, hunt down Vance, and find the time to pray that my face isn’t plastered all over the tabloids with my shirt up around my neck. For once, there is something more important to me than getting Bristol out of a jam, and she can’t even tell me what the hell that jam is.
“Can’t you see that this is hard for me? I’m trying.”
A few breaths calm me long enough to wait another second for her to spit it out, but by the way she’s doing everything possible to stall, my patience isn’t going to outlast her procrastination. “Bristol—” I yell, but she cuts me off before I can scream my frazzled ultimatum.
“I called the photographers.” Her eyes fill with tears, her regret evident, but way too late. “They’re here because I tipped them off.”
I wish now I’d been more patient—allowed myself more time to live in my crappy moment of ignorance before she obliterated said shitty moment with one even worse. I soak up her confession, feel it in every fiber and pore until it consumes even the smallest part of me that knows she would never have done that had she known the outcome.
Bristol has knee-jerk responses. That’s how she works. She never thinks of what comes after. She lives in today and I clean up tomorrow. We’ve always lived that way, and up until this second, it’s worked. It’s always worked, but like all things that run on collected parts pieced together by necessity and not design, something will eventually break, malfunction, or require tweaking. I don’t know which this is, but our pieced-together parts have stopped working together.
She reaches out, thinks twice, and pulls her hand back. “Say something.”
“Why?” It’s all I can get out.
“Oh my God, Brenna, you wouldn’t listen to me. I had to do something.”
I seethe, lacking even the smallest amount of understanding.
“Someone has to save you. You sure in the hell aren’t going to do it.”
I point a stern finger right to the middle of her chest. “I am not Mom. Stop treating me like I am.”
“You’re a lot more like her than you think.”
I shake my head, scowling like a bitter bitch. Needing air and space to breathe, I head outdoors, but bike cop Solomon catches me at the door.
“Ms. Sloan, you can’t leave yet.” Fat tears form in my eyes like they had been there all along and just swelled to perfection. Like most guys, he clearly doesn’t like tears or any emotion that he can’t tamp down with sheer will and/or a shot of whiskey. “Uh, go ahead, take a second.” He grabs hold of the handle on the door and holds it open so I can suck in some much-needed air.
I look both ways down Ocean Avenue, seeing bikers, bleached-blonde natives, a few lingering police officers, and the horde of photographers they’ve pushed across the street to the boardwalk. I don’t see Vance. He’s tall, so he stands out in most crowds, but I can’t find him. I wipe away the last of the moisture from my cheeks and press my fingers into my eyes until the tears dry.
“Hey! There she is!” The isolated paparazzi buzz, coming to life like a swatted wasp nest. “Give us your name, sweetheart. You may as well soak up your fifteen minutes. It’s about all you’re going to last,” one shouts through an open mouth I want to punch her in.
“Give us something, and we’ll leave you alone.” It’s a promise they won’t keep and more than likely don’t have the power to offer.
“Brenna!” One amongst the wasp nest shouts for me, and I turn my head with a jerk that rattles some curse words loose. “Brenna Sloan!”
“Fuck!” I say beneath my breath, torn between being impressed and utter astonishment. I’ve had guys stumble over my name on a date, and these people have it within ten minutes of actually seeing my face.
I head back into The Seam, and Uncle Rodney, expecting me back, is waiting by the door talking to bike cop Solomon with his hands as much as his vocabulary.
His eyes land on mine, sympathetic but impatient, and he excuses himself from Solomon to retrieve me before I’ve gotten too far inside. “He’s gone home, love.”
It doesn’t register right away, but when it does, it’s another information body blow. “Home? Why?”
He slides an arm over my shoulders and squeezes me into his side. “He thinks it’s what’s best for you.”
“Me?”
“His life is public and it’s always going to be. I don’t think he wants that for you.”
“This is Bristol’s doing. Not his. Oh God! Does he know it was Bristol?”
“He knows,” he says softly, eyes maddeningly sympathetic. “I couldn’t have protected her if I’d wanted to.”
I’m done spiraling and then rallying for Bristol. I’ll deal with her later. Waiting is the least she deserves. “Home, as in his house here, or home, as in he’s driving back to San Jose?”
If he’s surprised I’m not cussing up a storm and hightailing it after Bristol, he doesn’t show it. “He didn’t say.” His eyes are kind and hold a wealth of love I’ve always taken for granted. He’s always been a strength I’ve relied on to see us through anything, but how is he going to see me through this? Feeling like I’m on the brink of losing everything I thought I’d have forever, and the one thing I thought I’d never have, I want him to fix this.
He grabs hold of my face, palms my head between his hands and kisses my forehead. “Whatever you do, love, make sure it’s not out of spite. And desperation rarely results in the outcome you hope for. Think with this,” he points at
my chest. “It always has good intentions. This,” he taps my forehead, “this will talk you out of the right thing if you let it, and often overthinks the simple things your heart already knows.”
“What happened?” My mom, out of breath and late to the party as usual, inserts herself between me and Uncle Rodney, grabs hold of me, and throws a quick set of eyes over me like she’s looking for imperfections on the surface of an apple. “Are you okay?”
I nod, kiss her on the cheek and extricate myself from her grasp. “I have to talk to bike cop Solomon.”
“What? Why? Oh dear God, Brenna, don’t call him that to his face, honey.”
I’m about to open my mouth to say something sarcastic, when I spot Joe, my mom’s piece of shit ex-boyfriend, blocking the entrance and exit into The Seam. I look at my mom, whose repentant look is enough to pass for contrite but not apologetic. I open my mouth, clamp it shut, and walk away, because for once, she’s not going to stop me from going after what I want.
After I’ve spoken to bike cop Solomon, I find Bristol in the storage room rummaging behind the shelves for our hidden bottle of Jameson. It’s got to be at least four years old, dusty, and harboring the dead shells of critters behind its peeling label. “Give me the keys.”
Oblivious to my presence, she jumps at my command, hits her head against the wall, and rattles the shelf. “Not funny, Brenna.” Standing up empty-handed, she dusts off her arm and shoulder with a heavy hand, filling the air with gray flour. “I could have broken the bottle.”
“I’m going to break more than that if you don’t give me the car keys.” She knows how I fight. I’m not a contender, but the threat alone raises her hackles.
“I did you a favor. You may not see it now, but I did.”
“Keys!”
“No. I won’t let you go after him. With everything we’ve been through in this town, I can’t believe you want to date a guy who can’t kiss a girl without it making the cover of Candid. You’ll regret it.”
“You don’t get to decide what I do. I stuck by you. You can stick by me.”
“No! Totally different scale. This, Brenna, will be global. And for what? A guy who likes the chase but not the commitment? He’ll never stay.”
“I’m not Mom.” I thrust my hand out, palm up. “I’m not going to ask you again. Give me the keys!”
“No.” She doesn’t even balk at my aggression. “It’s me or him.”
I’m powered by anger, and what I might ordinarily refrain from saying spills out with venom. “This isn’t the night you want to make me choose.”
Bristol’s blotchy red spots find new life. “I’m your ride or die. Are you saying you’d choose him?”
“I’m saying a break from you sounds pretty damn good right now. So, ask me again to choose.”
“Fine!” She struggles to pull the keys out of her shorts pocket, and for a second I think they may be permanently trapped, but a few grunts and tugs later, she slaps the keys into my hand with a disgruntled smack. “You need to reassess your priorities.”
“You’re right. Maybe I should move your betrayal to the top of the list.
Her blotches flare red, but to my astonishment, she snaps her mouth shut and hardens her features. “Have it your way.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Vance has ignored my texts, calls, and the Silver Stallion’s wimpy horn blasts that sound more like timid hello’s than confident holler’s. I check out the white paneled gate to see if it’s something I can climb over, but there are no footholds high enough to boost me anywhere near the top, and I don’t have enough arm strength to pull myself up from the ground. There is public parking down at the bottom of the hill. I could park there, walk around, and get to his house from the back steps, but that seems desperate, and Uncle Rodney warned me about the repercussions of desperation, so I compromise, and shoot him another text.
Me: I’m at your gate. Will you let me in?
Minutes later, my phone sings a text, and I about nosedive into the hood of the Silver Stallion.
Vance: I’m not home.
Me: Will you be soon?
Five eternal minutes pass, and I’m ashamed to say I have that down to within a half-second, give or take, before response dots appear on my phone.
Vance: No.
Me: Then answer your phone.
Vance: Busy.
Me: Avoiding me doesn’t make you busy. It makes you an asshole.
Endless seconds, minutes . . .
Vance: Not avoiding. Busy!!
Me: I’m not leaving until we talk.
I’ve always been the product of someone else’s decisions, and just once I want to hold the cards. I want to be the one who wins or fails based on my choices and input. He hasn’t known me long enough to be my voice, and if he’s walking away, it had better be because he doesn’t want me and not because he thinks it’s “best for me.” Besides, I walked out on Bristol after always vowing to choose her, and I’ll be damned if it’s going to be for nothing.
Vance: It could be a while. I’ll call you when I’m done.
Me: I’ll wait.
I’m sitting on the hood, face down in my phone, waiting for contact and feeling more and more like the desperate woman who raised me than the woman I thought I’d eventually grow to be, when the gate slides open. The roar of a motorcycle behind me gives my heart an exhilarated beat. I look up as Vance pulls up beside me and stops.
“Pull in,” he says, and gives the bike enough throttle to proceed through the gate and into the opening garage stall where his Spyder is parked.
I pull in, park behind the Spyder, and take a breath before hopping out. Vance clears the garage door as it starts to lower and stands within a foot of me and the front of my car. He’s perfect except for the eyes that hold something a little darker than the last time they landed on me.
I follow him inside the house without the anticipation of the last time I was here. He’s distant and I’m pretty sure resigned to whatever decision he’s made without me. At the top of the stairs where the living room and kitchen intersect, he asks if I want anything.
If by anything he means him, then yes, but I think he means a drink or trip to the bathroom. “I’m fine,” I reply, feeling anything but fine as I feel him slipping away and me slipping away from Bristol. Dear God, how does one person handle this alone?
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “If I had known they’d be there, I never would have asked you to come.” My fingers ache from being tangled around one another, and I have to flex them to loosen the settling pain.
“I’m not mad at you, Brenna.”
“How could you—the paparazzi—the cameras—I—you—” Even speech class didn’t make me stutter this badly, and I was the worst.
“I’m not mad, Brenna, I just don’t want that for you. It’s not fair for me to come into your life and uproot it like that. I knew better, and I still pursued you. That’s my fault, not yours.”
“Don’t I get a say?”
I see him stiffen, and his fist down at his side tightens. “No. My life isn’t going to change.”
“It’s not your fault, it’s—”
“If it’s not her, it’ll be someone else,” he barks, interrupting my explanation. If he only knew Bristol better, he’d understand, or perhaps not, since understanding Bristol requires a degree and he chose baseball. “That’s what you’re not getting.”
“I get it. I’m here, aren’t I? I could have just as easily chosen Bristol.” I make it sound like it’s some heroic feat not choosing Bristol, but even as I say it, I know I’m returning to her regardless of the outcome here.
Exasperated, he runs a hand through his hair, looks up and blows out a breath. “I don’t want you to choose me.”
“Like, at all?” That’s something my mom would ask, and I cringe, wishing I could take the bullet out of the chamber. I will not beg him. I will not tell him my worth if he cannot see it for himself. Not in this lifetime and certainly not in this moment.
“You shouldn’t have to choose.” It’s a form of retreat I recognize for what it is— his way out.
Mentally distancing myself, I harden my tone. “Can I ask you a question?”
He nods.
“If none of this were an issue, would you let me walk out this door?”
He doesn’t flinch, his reply quick. “I don’t know, Brenna, because that’s not our situation.”
“You do know,” I say flatly. It’s more obvious now than ever that he never intended for me to be more than a diversion from his public life. “You’ve always known.” I turn to leave the way he led me in. He grabs my elbow before I can hit the first step.
His eyes dance, circling my features before dropping to my lips and back up to my eyes where they hold briefly. For a moment my heart feels hope, and then he drops my arm without a word exchanged.
I’ve never been more confused, but now I’m hell-bent on making this hard on him too. I’ve got nothing to lose, so I grip his shirt, pull him toward me, and on tiptoes, I kiss him one last time. With no protest, I slip in a little tongue, conscious of my breath, which I freshened with a broken cherry Lifesaver I found in the cup holder of my car. He kisses me back, but before he can find his restraint and reject me, I pull away, dropping down onto flat feet. “If this is goodbye, I’m not going to regret what I didn’t do.”
With every ounce of strength and pride I have, I pivot on feet that want to stay planted and walk out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ignoring Bristol’s questions, hopeful looks, and well-timed sniffles, I pull the Silver Stallion into an empty spot in a lot two blocks farther away from work than normal. I’m an emotional, sleepless wreck, and I haven’t planned for this shit. So, between the five minutes of circling the block looking for a spot to park and having to walk an extra two blocks, we’re going to be late for work.
Rumor Has It (Jock Star Book 1) Page 17